


Father of the Pride

by WritLarge



Series: Inception Bingo 2017 [6]
Category: Inception (2010), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Community: inceptiversary, Crossover, Eames POV, Inception Bingo, John POV, M/M, Post-Inception, Stubble, mentions of Marcus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritLarge/pseuds/WritLarge
Summary: Arthur.John hadn’t seen him for years and now? The stubble on his face told John all he needed to know about how Arthur was taking Marcus’ death. John wondered who had called him.





	1. John

Marcus had deserved better than to be killed for John’s fuck up.

It was another day before he made his way back to the house, dog in tow. He’d had the worst of his injuries seen to, but even that and a change of clothes couldn’t mask the ache in his movements. Dealing with Viggo had left its mark.

At least the body would be gone by now. John had called for someone to take care of Marcus, seeing to it properly, and had received an update that morning. There were people who needed to be told too. 

As he got closer, John blinked, the hair on the back of his neck standing up straight.

Someone was in the house.

He snapped the leash in his hand taught to halt the puppy. No one should be here. No one outside of a handful of people knew about this house, though God knows who Viggo had told. John paused on the step, reaching for his gun and steeling himself for a confrontation before he recognized the man in the doorway.

Arthur. 

John hadn’t seen him for years and now? The stubble on his face told John all he needed to know about how Arthur was taking Marcus’ death. John wondered who had called him.

Marcus had schooled a significant number of successful assassins, father of the pride in a way, befriending and training them, creating the strongest kind of connection people like them could have. John would need to call around and explain, before any of them showed up looking for answers as Arthur had, but of course it would be Arthur first, the only one among them with any blood right to be here.

Arthur jerked his head and John followed him inside.

There was another man on the stairs, coiled warily in a casual pose. John would have asked, but Arthur turned, leaving his back open to the man entirely. More than a business partner then.

“They’re dead?” It sounded more like a statement than a question. John had ended the men who had killed Marcus. He’d owed him more than that, but it was all he’d been able to do.

“Very dead, yes.”

“Good,” Arthur turned and walked into the front sitting room. 

John followed. The dog tugged at his leash and John allowed him to slip away and go snuffling around the house. Fuck he was tired. Arthur collapsed into one of the chairs and rubbed at his face, looking about as rough as John felt. John sat as well, hissing out a breath as he pulled at his stitches.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” 

John had known Arthur as a boy, not in this house, but at his father’s side, tagging along with wide eyes. Marcus had been very practical about his education. He still seemed young to him, even though he must have been past thirty by now. The last few times they’d met, Arthur had grown into his suits, hair slicked back, face calmly impassive. Never a chink in his armour. He was wrinkled and coarse now, needing a shower and shave.

Arthur scowled, “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t kill him. Dad always made his own choices.” 

Apparently whoever had called Arthur had filled him in on more than bare facts. It was true that Marcus had taken it on himself to get involved, taking the contract on John to dissuade someone else from doing the same. John regretted having put him in that position though. Marcus could just as easily have let him die. That he hadn’t let John suffer the result of his own mistakes only made the guilt worse. 

Arthur should have been angrier. Instead he was quiet. The only sound came from the hall, a handful of murmured words from where the man on the stairs fussed over the dog. The small kindness relaxed something in his chest. 

That no one was actively trying to kill him at the moment helped as well.

“John,” Arthur levelled a look at him. “Do you need help?”

John hesitated. What was he meant to say? He doubted there was anything Arthur could do that John wasn’t better able to manage himself. It must have shown on his face.

Arthur laughed bitterly, “You have no idea what I do, do you?”

“Not really.” Something military? It didn’t matter. “Look, I just need to find my car.”

“I could-”

“No.” He wasn’t going to drag anyone else into this mess. “I’m retiring again.”

“Fine,” Arthur snapped, clearly disbelieving, and added as more of an order than an offer, “Call if you need anything.”

John nodded with no intention of ever doing so. Arthur narrowed his eyes and held out a hand for John’s phone, entering his number once he had it in hand before returning it with a condescending flick of his wrist. When the kid had gotten so sharp, John didn’t remember. 

“My condolences on the loss of your wife.” Helen. It hadn’t even been a month since her death. Marcus had offered his condolences too, kept an eye on John when he’d been oblivious. He’d been a shit friend. Marcus hadn’t seemed to expect anything from him, however. He wished he’d taken more time to talk to the man, but he’d been too wrapped up in his own anger and grief.

“Will there be a funeral?”

“No. Dad always wanted...” Arthur let the words trail off.

“Yeah. Right.” The cabin. They never spoke of it out loud, never that John had known. If Marcus had had any true home, it had been there, where his wife had been buried. Arthur would manage the arrangements, he expected, which left John to finish tying up loose ends.

“Are you keeping the house?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room. 

“No. God no. You can burn it to the ground for all I care.” Fair enough. Marcus didn’t keep sentimental things here. There were other places for that. Arthur’s response put the decision on John, however, so he supposed the house was his now if he wanted it.

“All right.”

Arthur rose from the chair and John mirrored him. The man on the stairs went quiet, leaving the dog whining for attention.

“Try and take care of yourself.” Arthur didn’t reach out to touch him and he was grateful, as there was hardly an inch of space on his body that would welcome the contact.

“You too.” They walked out to the hall together, the dog scrambling up to pad over and knock into John’s leg. He reclaimed the leash and glanced at the man who’d risen from the stairs.

Arthur’s friend smiled at him, “Lovely dog you’ve got.” British accent. Gun in a shoulder holster.

“Thanks.”

John watched them go. Pausing on the sidewalk by a sleek black car, Arthur sagged and the British man braced him, pressing a quick kiss against his hair before nudging him into the waiting vehicle. Good. At least Arthur had someone to watch his back. 

He pulled out his phone and deleted Arthur’s number. John had brought this down on Marcus. The least he could do was keep his son out of it.


	2. Eames and Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames perspective on Arthur's family history and his state of disarray.

Eames watched Arthur as he slept, collapsed on the hotel bed only half undressed. It had been an exhausting week. Reaching across the small space between them, he let his fingers gently pass over the roughness of Arthur’s cheek. It was a rare sight. Arthur hated stubble, though he never seemed to mind that Eames was less than diligent at shaving, and showed how shaken Arthur had been by his father’s death.

It was a shame about Marcus.

Eames had in fact met him long before he’d met Arthur, but only in passing.

When he and Arthur had finally gotten around to acknowledging that they’d fallen into a relationship, Eames had given Arthur carte blanche to dig into his past. Arthur had already checked into his background for jobs, being the thorough man that he was, but he’d never gone deep enough to ferret out all of Eames’ secrets. He’d been curious to see what would result.

Arthur hadn’t taken long.

“Your mother’s name was Charlotte Winslow?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Victoria Winslow’s younger sister.” The statement had been so sure, Eames had wondered if Arthur’d already met her. “And you worked at the London Continental?” 

He had known then that Arthur had run clean through his many varied aliases. Aunt Vicky was on the up and up as far as assassins went, but that was not the path that Eames had taken, much to her dismay. 

“Yes, darling. What of it?”

“My father is Marcus Sterling.” 

That admission had stunned Eames into a good thirty seconds of silence. Marcus was a big name. When he’d been providing Guest Services at the London Continental, he’d known a few regulars who’d talk about having trained with him, and had very briefly met Marcus himself.

“That explains a lot,” he’d finally responded and gotten a hard shove and a smile for his trouble.

It had clicked then, why Arthur had been reluctant up until that point to explain his family background, revealing his corporate criminal mother and professional assassin father. Of course, Arthur had only known Eames and not any of the other people that he’d been before Eames, a few of whom had rather a lot of experience with assassins and their ilk. Still did some work there ocassionally, though Eames took care to keep his dreamshare work separate from that part of his life.

He’d asked Arthur if he did the same, working with any of his father’s associates. Arthur had shaken his head. Too boring, he’d answered. 

Boring. High stakes international assassination was _boring_.

Properly meeting Arthur’s father had been a delight, however. Marcus had been more charismatic than his son, but just as ruthlessly competent, and had the same love of a well cut suit. The way they both smiled, he’d been quite enamoured. 

Unfortunately, they’d only had the one weekend visit before Marcus had been killed, never having had the opportunity to use the lovely new Canadian epassport Eames had gifted him with. Arthur had offered him the grim details but it didn’t matter, Eames would happily follow along with whatever he deemed necessary. His own father had been cold and disapproving, no one Eames had missed when he died, and he envied the warm relationship Arthur had managed to maintain with Marcus, complicated though it was. Or had been. 

“Eames?”

“Right here.”

“Fuck.”

“Mmm, sleep not help?”

“I feel disgusting,” Arthur pushed himself up on his elbows to glare blearily at Eames.

“I’m afraid most of my talents lie in dirtying you up further. Perhaps you should get up and shower?”

“Yeah,” Arthur rubbed at his face and grimaced. “What time is it?”

As if it they had been waiting for the cue, a knock on the door signalled their breakfast arriving. 

“Ten am apparently. Go on. I’ll get it,” Eames waved him off and padded to the door in his boxers. He signed for the cart and brought it in, steering it over to the small table in the room. It would keep. 

The water in the shower was on now. Eames would be glad to see the stubble go, shaven off and washed down the drain, hopefully taking the past two days of exhaustion with it. Arthur had never looked right with any sort of facial hair. Between the two of them, only Eames could grow anything resembling a proper beard.

He waited until the water was off before joining Arthur in the bathroom. The shaving kit was already spread out on the wide counter. His face lathered, Arthur was brushing a wet lock of hair away from his eyes before beginning. That would likely get cut too in the next few days. 

Eames stepped behind him and pressed a soft kiss against the nape of his neck.

“Do you want me to shave or not?”

“Am I distracting you?” He settled his hands on Arthur’s towel clad hips.

“Stop that,” Arthur’s reflection glared at him. “I look like shit.” 

Eames laughed and kept his lips to himself, watching Arthur work, efficient and graceful as always.

“Your Mr. Wick looked a good deal worse.” 

Eames had examined the man at the house from a distance, but that had been all he needed. He’d found that while most people like John, or Marcus or Arthur for that matter, were very good at situational observation, they weren’t nearly as skilled at reading people. They would have noticed, as he had, that John was injured. Exhausted and aching in his bones. But they would have assumed John to be distracted by that pain, foggy with the lack of real rest. 

John was still sharp, however, heavy layers of guilt and grief hiding a pool of rage underneath, gone quiet only because he trusted Arthur. Eames didn’t envy whoever had the man’s car at the moment.

“He’s never going to call you.”

“Christ,” Arthur muttered, bowing his head, face half finished. “What a fucking mess. If he goes after his car-”

“More mayhem, I’m sure. You can hardly keep him from making his own bad decisions.”

“I know.” The defeated sigh echoed in the tiled bathroom. “It’s just, now that Dad’s gone? Out of all the assholes that came to train with him, John was the only one that ever felt like...” 

“Like an older brother?” Arthur snorted and resumed shaving.

“More like a fucked up uncle. He was never cruel though, which is more than I can say for a lot of them.” A few more quick strokes and Arthur was done, cleaning away the last of the foam on his face. He looked more like himself now. 

“Do you need to contact anyone about your father?” There were surely a few assassins prowling about who still thought well enough of Marcus that their claws would come out over this, deal or not.

“No,” Arthur began packing away his kit. “Winston’s agreed to handle the professional side and there’s no other family left.” 

Oh Winston. He was lovely. Eames knew most of the Owners, keeping in touch and providing the sort of delicate documents and references sometimes needed by their clientele. He preferred to trade in favours rather than coins most of the time.

“I haven’t spoken with Winston in ages.” Arthur turned in his arms, raising an eyebrow when Eames used the opportunity to dislodge his towel. “I’m only wondering if-”

“Don’t go to the hotel. We’ll talk to him about it somewhere else.” As always, Arthur had read his thoughts. Winston would know far better and faster about the trouble that was coming. “No one else knows I’m here yet, or that you and the Sterlings are connected, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Fair enough. Eames leaned closer and let his hands wander.

“So we’ll linger a little and see what Uncle John gets himself up to then?” He kissed his way along the smooth skin of Arthur’s cheek, nudging at his jaw so that the other man tilted his head back and exposed his neck.

“Yeah,” Arthur sighed, his own hands finding their way into Eames’ hair. “We’ll wait.”

“Mmm. I’m sure we can find some way to pass the time.”


End file.
